


a still and woven blue

by OldShrewsburyian



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Academia, Arthur Pendragon Returns (Merlin), Arthurian, Awesome Gwen (Merlin), Bars and Pubs, British Museum, Christmas Party, Coffee, Cooking, Fainting, Flirting, Friendship, Gwaine Being Gwaine (Merlin), Literary References & Allusions, Male-Female Friendship, Merlin Has Magic (Merlin), Modern Era, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Oxford, POV Female Character, POV Gwen (Merlin), Post-Canon, Sandwiches, Scones, Tea, Texting, Whiskey & Scotch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24650509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian
Summary: Because if there are places where magic survives in the 21st century, one of those places is surely Oxford. Because the fellowship of Camelot deserved happier fates than the show gave them. Because it's hard for a king to save the world, and harder for a prophecy to be broken. And because, though there are many imaginings of what happened to Merlin, surviving into a new world, I wanted to write this one.This work is tagged for Arthurian mythology (and related fandoms) because, as some readers may notice, I've borrowed ideas from medieval literature and modern retellings, which will be acknowledged in the respective chapters.Weekly updates planned for Wednesdays; begun 10 June 2020. Note as of 20 August: this fic was planned to be finished by the end of the summer; it will not be. It has grown in the telling, and while it is plotted and sketched out to its end, the regularity of updates is very likely to suffer as the academic year begins. Subscriptions recommended to interested parties.
Relationships: Gwaine & Merlin (Merlin), Gwen & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Gwen & Merlin (Merlin), Gwen & Percival (Merlin), Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Lancelot & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Lancelot & Merlin (Merlin), Lancelot & Percival (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 104
Kudos: 73





	1. The Library

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Richard Wilbur's "Merlin Enchanted."

Gwen befriended Professor Ealdorman after he ran into her. She’d been in the Upper Reading Room, looking for fourteenth-century context for an argument about religion and ghosts in the Matter of Britain, and was knocked off balance by a Rolls Series volume making contact with her arm.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” said the culprit, in a voice loud enough to earn dirty looks from the other readers. 

“That’s all right,” whispered Gwen, conspiratorially. He was looking at her — looking through her, almost — with disproportionate concern. “Are _you_ all right?” she added, more softly still. Had he had some kind of a fit? Come over faint? He opened his mouth, and no sound came out. 

Mindful of the eyes of the reading room, Gwen jerked her head towards the double doors, and led him gently towards them. The offending Rolls Series volume she tucked under her arm, in strict contravention of policy. _Oh well,_ she thought, _it’s not as though I’m taking it out of the library._

“I ran into you,” he said, when she’d gotten them seated on the blue couch. Fortunately no one else had taken this moment to check their phone in the stairwell. From outside the open window, the faint noise of tourists, inseparable from summer in Oxford, drifted up. 

“Yes,” she said. She moved the book onto her lap, smoothed the cover. “Fasciculi Zizaniorum,” she said conversationally. “What’s that about, then?” Experience had taught her that distrait and distressed scholars could be most reliably revived by scholarship itself.

“I… heresy,” said the man. He seemed young for a member of the absent-minded species _scholasticus oxoniensis_ , but Gwen supposed that one never knew. “Accusations of heresy against John Wycliffe.” 

“That sounds quite interesting,” said Gwen encouragingly. “I’ll make a note of the shelfmark, actually; I’m looking at fourteenth-century beliefs myself.”

“Kind,” said the man dreamily. Gwen consciously reminded herself not to think of him as old; he couldn't be more than 40, surely. “You’re very kind.” (It sounded like _You were always kind_ , but that couldn’t be right.)

“You know we haven’t met before,” said Gwen, just in case.

“Oh!” The man took a deep breath, shook himself slightly, and for the first time looked at her, rather than at something in the middle distance. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Most remiss of me.” He put out a hand — a scholar’s hand, slender and strong. “Ealdorman, All Souls. I’m… Emrys, to my friends.”

“Gwen,” she said. “Gwen Smith, boringly enough, but at least the ‘Doctor’ improves it. Hertford.”

He returned her smile, a little hesitantly. “I do apologize.”

“Don’t mention it. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I… yes.” He looked down at his hands, squared now on his knees. “Yes.” When that did not suffice to remove her concerned presence from his side, he looked up again. “I… probably just haven’t eaten enough today. I’m afraid I can be dreadfully forgetful about such things.”

“In that case,” said Gwen, “why don’t I grab my laptop and leave your book on my desk, and you can buy me a flat white while you get yourself a sandwich? Both the coffee and the sandwich, by the way, are an apology for running into me.”

This time, his smile was full and bright, and of surprising sweetness.

That was one beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of Merlin as a Fellow of All Souls is, of course, taken from Susan Cooper's The Dark is Rising sequence.
> 
> You can access the _Fasciculi Zizianorum_ online, if you feel like it: https://lollardsociety.org/pdfs/Fasciculi_Zizaniorum.pdf. It contains some of the best passive-aggressive irony known to me in medieval Latin.
> 
> For the sounds of the Upper Reading Room (to my mind one of the best workspaces in the world) you can go here: https://www.ox.ac.uk/soundsofthebodleian/#oldlib


	2. Lancelot

The second beginning comes about a month later, when she has him to dinner at the flat in the Marston Road. 

“You’ll like him, I promise,” she tells Lance for approximately the thirteenth time. Wordlessly, he hands her the baster she needs. “He’s just a bit… odd.”

Lance raises an eyebrow. “Gwen, darling, you did tell me that he’s an academic.” She swats him with the dishtowel. “And that you met after he quite literally ran into you.” The doorbell rings. “Yes, I’ll get it, and I’ll be nice.”

Gwen leans up to kiss him on the cheek. “Right behind you.” She washes her hands, hearing the murmur of introductions in the hall. She sticks her head out of the kitchen to find Emrys still on the threshold, a bouquet in his hands, staring a little wide-eyed at Lance. “Yes, I know,” she says, “my boyfriend is very handsome, but do stop gawping and let him mix you a cocktail.”

“Yes,” says Emrys, “thank you.” He thrusts the bouquet — lupines and goldenrod and meadowsweet — a little awkwardly at Lance. “I brought these.”

“Thank you,” says Lance gravely, “they’re lovely.”

By the time Gwen joins them with the canapés, the two men are drinking gin and having a fairly normal conversation about the history of rowing. “You’ll never be able to escape dinner invitations now,” she says teasingly. “Not when you can talk shop with both of us.”

Emrys smiles, and raises his glass to her in salute. “But not at the same time,” he says dryly, and all three of them laugh.

At dinner they discuss cycling routes and Oxford’s idiosyncrasies, and when Emrys leaves, the night sky is sapphire blue.

“That was nice,” says Gwen, leaning into Lance’s side as they watch Emrys’ bicycle lights (a little wobbly at first; they had made good progress on the second bottle of wine) grow smaller in the darkness.

He kisses the top of her head. “Yes.” 

“You see what I mean, though.”

“Hm?” Lance puts the chain on the door. “About what?”

“About Professor Ealdorman — Emrys — being odd.”

Lance shrugs as he pulls on rubber gloves and squirts washing-up liquid into the sink. “All of your friends are a bit odd,” he says matter-of-factly. “So are mine. But I maintain that medievalists are, collectively and individually, more odd than rowers.”

“And cycling nuts?” 

“Well, no,” says Lance, answering her laughter as much as her question, “perhaps not more odd than cycling nuts.”

Gwen follows through on her promise and threat, and the three of them spend a good deal of time together, that summer. They attend Shakespeare in the college quads, and they picnic in the parks, and spend sunny weekends cycling along the canals and to surrounding towns. Lance threatens, at one point, to keep a list of all the different pubs they’ve stopped in. In August, they go up to London so Lance can take part in a cycling race. Once they’ve seen him off at the starting line, Emrys draws what Gwen knows to be a sigh of relief.

“Museum for me, I think,” he says, a little too quickly. “Somewhere quiet.” 

“Of course,” says Gwen. She wonders if she should have realized that the crowds would bother him. She wonders if he would have mentioned it. “I’ll text you when he’s through?”

“Text?” says Emrys, a little blankly, and then: “Oh no, no, I wouldn’t want — remind me when he should be through, approximately?”

“Try six hours,” says Gwen. “Look for my ridiculous straw hat.”

“Oh, I’ll find you,” says Emrys (far too confidently, Gwen thinks, for a man who was overwhelmed by London crowds two minutes previously.) “Don’t worry,” he adds, perceptively, and Gwen laughs, and kisses him impulsively on the cheek before watching him off into the throng.

Gwen buys herself two novels and an iced coffee before settling in near the finish line, spreading out her waterproof picnic blanket. She’s halfway through the first novel, and thinking about sandwiches, when Emrys drops down next to her.

“Told you I’d find you.”

“So you did,” she says, finishing a paragraph before putting a finger in her book. “Did you… oh! I was just thinking about lunch.”

“I know,” says Emrys, with a twinkle in his eye. He hands her a surprisingly robust-looking sandwich. “I got you one with seedy bread, to keep your strength up.”

Gwen laughs. “Perfect.” She lies back, stretching luxuriously in the sunlight. “Useful, that.”

“What?”

“Mm, your magic powers.” Emrys makes a choking sound, the natural consequence of laughing with a mouth full of food. “Useful,” she says again, “to know when someone is thinking about sandwiches.”

“Ah yes,” says Emrys, with mock gravity. “Magic powers. Nothing at all to do with the fact that it’s after 1 in the afternoon.”

Gwen giggles. “No. So,” she says, “did you have a nice time at the museum?”

“Ah. Yes. Spent most of my time in the Sutton Hoo room, actually. Just… looking.”

“It is quite marvelous.”

“Yes. And then…” Emrys pauses; Gwen tells herself that there’s no reason that he should sound wistful, and that she must be mistaken. “Sometimes,” he says softly, “objects come to feel like old friends.”

“Oh yes,” agrees Gwen. “I like coins for just that reason. Manuscripts too, obviously, but coins because you can see how people touched them, handled them: how the edges got worn down with greasy fingers and being handed back and forth. How the edges got nicked from being kept in purses on long journeys. You can see life in them. Not that I can reliably convince my students of that.”

Emrys chuckles under his breath. “Well, the manuscripts are more your area.”

“Yes. And even then…” Gwen brushes crumbs from her fingers, and opens her bag of crisps. “I can show them where readers marked important passages, or ran fingers over the page, but… They always seem surprised — the students, I mean — to find out that people in the past had emotions so similar to our own. I sometimes have to coach them into seeing it, or into letting themselves see it. It’s as though they need permission to acknowledge that _yes,_ what they’re reading about is desire, friendship, humor, grief.”

Emrys hums softly. “There are easier things you could have done with your life.”

“Than studying Middle English? Than writing on the presence and absence of Guinevere in Layamon’s Brut? Than attempting to teach medieval English literature at Oxford while Black and female? Yes, I’m aware.”

“Sorry,” says Emrys. “It was meant as a compliment.”

Gwen sighs. “I know. It’s just… I spend a lot of time talking to people who make no secret of wondering why someone like _me_ is doing something like _this._ ”

“Sorry,” says Emrys again, more gently still.

Gwen nudges him affectionately with her shoulder. “Tell me about your friends the helmets.” And, with a smile, he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lance's race is vaguely based on RideLondon.
> 
> Merlin’s priorities at the British Museum are suggested by the fact that, in the show, there’s a replica of the [Sutton Hoo helmet](http://www.teachinghistory100.org/objects/sutton_hoo_helmet) just… hanging out in Arthur’s chambers. Just displayed on a dresser. A seventh-century helmet in a nineteenth-century castle where people wear vaguely late-medieval clothes. I have never figured out why it’s there.


	3. Gwaine

“What’s your book about?” asks Emrys, after about an hour of companionable silence. (This is one of the things she likes about him; he has a rare gift for stillness.)

“Get your own,” says Gwen mildly. “It’s about archaeologists. The antagonist is an obnoxious telly don.” This wins a startled guffaw of laughter. Gwen turns and grins at him. She still thinks he laughs too rarely. “It’s good fun,” she says. “It’s about discovering King Arthur’s burial place — or trying to — but there’s also a scene where all they find on a dig is eighteenth-century buttons.” She chuckles. 

“It’s not a bit… too close to home?” asks Emrys.

“Nope,” says Gwen cheerfully. “It’s got King Arthur in it, as a historical subject, and the premise is that Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Welsh book actually existed.”

“Huh.”

“Clever, isn’t it? The other one’s got vampires in it.” Emrys drops it as though he fears the vampires might bite him. “If you read it,” says Gwen, “I won’t tell your students. Unless you get grease stains on my nice new novel, in which case all bets are off.”

“Mm,” says Emrys, and lies back on the blanket instead.

Gwen looks at him somewhat incredulously. “How can you sleep,” she asks, “in the middle of hundreds of people making sporting-event quantities of noise?”

“Years of lost sleep to catch up on,” says Emrys without opening his eyes.

“Postgrad work will do that to you,” agrees Gwen, and Emrys chuckles for longer than the rejoinder deserves… and then, remarkably, does fall asleep.

“Get up,” says Gwen, a few hours later; “they’re coming in.” 

Emrys makes an aggrieved noise and lets her pull him to his feet. “How’s the novel?”

“Oh, very satisfying.”

“Did he return?”

“Did he…? Oh, no,” says Gwen, laughing as she catches on; “it’s not a fantasy novel. Though I’ve read plenty of those in my time too, if we’re being honest.”

“Ah.”

Gwen claps for the first finishers, and joins sympathetically with those around them who are applauding and cheering. She cannot suppress an exclamation of genuine relief when Lance finally comes into view.

“You were worried about him,” says Emrys.

“You’re far too observant,” says Gwen, and then devotes herself entirely to jumping up and down and making as much noise as she possibly can. When Lance has passed them — his smile exhausted and still dazzling — she says: “I always am.”

“Suppose that’s what love is.”

“Professor Ealdorman!” gasps Gwen, in feigned shock. “You’re a soppy romantic.”

To her surprise, he laughs outright for the second time that day. “You wouldn’t be the first to say so.”

* * *

“Damn,” says Gwen, as they fight their way through the throng.

“A little bit more to the right, and you can make your way past the family with the lawn chair.”

“Thanks,” says Gwen breathlessly, “but I was just thinking that I should have made a reservation. Lance will be ravenous, and goodness knows how far we’ll have to go to find a place with a table. Or room to stand, for that matter.”

“Leave that to me,” says Emrys confidently, and Gwen decides to trust him.

She kisses Lance, filthy and triumphant, and is quite happily basking in his account of the parks and the cows and the hawks and the good road, and thinking about how disgustingly lucky she is, when Emrys clears his throat.

“Not,” he says, “to be unromantic, but I know where we can find something to eat.”

“Good God, man, why didn’t you say so earlier?” Lance throws an arm around his shoulders. “Most definitely the hero of the hour.”

“What’s the best Tube station?” asks Gwen.

“Easiest to walk,” says Emrys, surprisingly, and does so, striking an angle across the park indicated by no path. 

Lance shrugs expressively at Gwen. “Right then,” he says. “Lead on, Macduff.”

“You know that’s ominous in context,” says Emrys.

“Sure, but this way the literature professors I’m surrounded by get the fun of pointing it out.”

“You’re terrible,” says Gwen affectionately, and he pulls her into his side.

Emrys continues to guide them across crosswalks and up streets without so much as consulting an _A-to-Zed_. Gwen, sleepy and sunburnt, is on the verge of asking him if he’s quite sure they’re on the right track when he takes a sharp left into a street so narrow that it might be masquerading as an alley.

“Here,” says Emrys.

“I love London,” says Lance, contemplating the bright blue and gold of The Rising Sun. “D’you think they’d let me prop up my bike by the door?”

“Oh, it’ll be quite safe here.” For the third time that day, Gwen finds herself wondering at his confidence. 

“Glaring at Lancelot’s lock won’t make it work better,” she tells him.

“Won’t it?” asks Emrys, twinkling at her. “Ah well.”

The pub is surprisingly peaceful: reasonably full, but not chaotic, and refreshingly, anomalously free of screens. More surprisingly still, Emrys waves at the bartender, who salutes jauntily. Gwen is somehow not surprised when he waves a colleague out to oversee the taps while he comes over to gossip.

“Emrys,” he says, “it’s been too long.”

“It has, my friend. Lance,” he says, gesturing his introductions, “and Gwen. Colleague and partner of colleague, in reverse order.”

“Pleasure,” says the bartender, shoving his hair out of his face and extending a hand. And then he says something that really, for all Gwen’s attempts to make it do so, does not sound like Dwayne.

“…Gawaine?” says Gwen, trying to sound neither hesitant nor incredulous.

“Gwaine. Misspelled it on the birth certificate and there you are — or there I am.”

“Remarkable. Sorry,” she adds; “it’s just that I study medieval literature.”

“Well, there _you_ are, then,” he rejoins cheerfully. “Mum was a hippie and Dad was a bit of a nationalist; they compromised on a Celtic sun god and I didn’t stand a chance. What’ll it be?”

“Bishop’s Finger all around,” says Emrys promptly. “My shout, and don’t protest; I’m more established than you are.”

Lance snorts. “Come off it, you’re not that old.”

Gwaine leans in theatrically. “Never argue with the man buying the drinks.”

“Sound advice,” says Gwen. “Thank you,” she adds pointedly.

Lance holds up his hands in defeat. “It’s very kind.”

Emrys’ face lightens. “Don’t mention it. My only condition is that I don’t have to carry you out of here.”

Lance grimaces. “No, the bit where I can’t walk comes tomorrow. And that’s if I haven’t stretched properly. Still feels like a bit of a gamble sometimes.”

“Mm. Remind me to give you something.”

Lance raises an eyebrow. “Emrys, don’t tell me you dabble in… what are you dabbling in, exactly?”

“I don’t dabble,” says Emrys, and then gets what Gwen thinks of as his reassessing look. “That is, I’ve been dabbling long enough that I know what I’m doing now. Medicines,” he explains. “Creams, lineaments, that kind of thing. Spent long enough being annoyed by not knowing what medieval recipes were talking about that I decided to try it out myself.”

“Wow!”

“Well,” says Lance, more skeptically, “I trust you won’t turn me into a toad or anything. Ow!” He rubs his shin where Gwen kicked him under the table.

“You deserved it,” she says, with mock severity. “Toads, indeed. _No_ proper respect for the Middle Ages. But — Emrys — I’m sorry, but I thought you did heresy?”

Emrys smiles, and takes a long first pull at his beer before replying. “What I _do_ ,” he says, with obvious relish, “is magic. Magic and medicine. The heretics were a side project, I’m afraid.” He sighs. “I started wondering about metaphors with sin and medicine and heresy, and what they might tell us about systems of belief and practice…”

“I can see how a thing like that might happen,” says Lance solemnly, and then they are all laughing.

By the time they leave The Rising Sun, Gwaine has joined them at the table and threatened to tell them about Emrys’ history of pub quizzing, and they are all more than a little drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The axiomatic premise, here, is that while Merlin is immortal, the other companions of Camelot might just... resurface, along with the once and future king. Because there is no story of Arthur in which he is not surrounded by friends.
> 
> As for The Rising Sun, well, Merlin probably had a lot more to do with its creation than he'll ever admit. I maintain that using lifetimes of learning to win at pub quizzes is analogous to using magic to win at knucklebones.
> 
> The book Gwen is reading is this one, which I liked: https://wwnorton.com/books/Finding-Camlann/


	4. with mony luflych lorde

Michaelmas Term passes in a bit of a blur, as it always does, spinning them from the last golden days of near-summer through brisk October winds to winter rain. And, as always, Gwen finds herself wondering if the freshers are this hapless _every_ year, this prone to leaving items off their reading lists or gradually working up the courage to state a thesis in the last paragraph of an essay or showing up for their tutorials on the wrong afternoons entirely. 

Sometimes Gwen thinks there are threads of silver in Emrys’ hair; at other times, she thinks she must have imagined it. When she tells Lance this, he laughs. 

“Gwen, darling, he probably dyes it.”

“Hmm.” 

“There are commercials for the stuff every time we watch your detective shows, practically.”

“I know,” she says. She is still preoccupied, still unconvinced.

“Stop worrying,” says Lance; and his breath is warm against her ear, and so she does.

* * *

“Does it ever seem to you,” asks Lance, chopping vegetables for Christmas dinner, “that we’ve rather adopted him?”

“Emrys?”

“Yes — as something between a younger cousin and a wise uncle.”

Gwen laughs. “Maybe. I just… he seemed so sad, somehow.”

“You and your waifs and strays, darling.”

“As if you’re any better,” says Gwen affectionately. “What about Percy?”

“Well, Percy… Yes, all right then,” says Lance, “we’re each as bad as the other. But Percy’s never really had anyone steady, you know?”

“I know,” says Gwen softly.

“And he may be a bit rough around the edges, but he’s a very generous soul.”

“I know another.”

“You’ll burn the onions,” says Lance against her lips, after a minute, and she makes a startled noise and barely avoids doing so.

Gwaine makes the fifth at their Christmas dinner. Gwen had asked Emrys if he had other plans, expecting a ‘no’; instead, he’d furrowed his brow and said “Well… sometimes Gwaine and I…” and the upshot was that they were both coming.

“My betting,” says Lance, “is that we’re up to at least half a dozen by next year.” 

“Oh, that’s no fun; we’d only have to pick up one more! At least make it a decent bet.”

“All right, eight.”

“Eight it is,” says Gwen, and the doorbell rings.

Rather to Gwen’s surprise, Gwaine comes bearing something that is not a bottle. “Is that a fruit cake?”

He grins, handing it to her. “It is! Taste it before you throw it at my head; the shop-bought things are terrible.”

Gwen laughs. “It’s very kind of you. Emrys, did you pass Percy on your way from the station?”

“Passed a giant on a bicycle.”

“That’ll be him.”

“Emrys,” calls Lance from the kitchen. “Get in here, and bring your Irishman.” 

“His Irishman, indeed!” scoffs Gwaine, but follows Emrys down the hall.

“Percy!” says Gwen, opening the door, “come in out of the weather.”

“It’s all right,” says Percy, “there’s no ice.”

“That doesn’t make it any warmer.”

“Good god,” says Gwaine when they enter the kitchen.

“You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full,” counters Percy. Gwaine sticks the rest of his vol-au-vent in his mouth without breaking eye contact.

Professor Ealdorman sighs. “This is Gwaine, and I’m Emrys.”

“Percy. Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise. I apologize for my friend’s manners.”

“Oi,” says Gwaine, still somewhat indistinctly, and puts out his hand to shake Percy’s.

“If you’re _quite_ finished,” says Lance, “you can get out from underfoot and let me pour the wine.” 

“Out,” echoes Gwen; “I have a goose to cook.” Lance kisses her, and herds the guests, and the chatter of male voices is heard in the living room. Lance asks Emrys to choose a record to put on; Gwaine is holding forth on canapés, presumably for Percy’s benefit. Gwen smiles, and gets to work.

After dinner, she and Emrys are left alone in front of the fireplace. Lance is putting away the food and cleaning the kitchen, and surprisingly, Gwaine was the first to volunteer for washing-up duty. Percy had wordlessly followed him into the kitchen. 

“I feel quite the idler,” observes Emrys.

“Nonsense,” says Gwen contentedly. “There’s barely enough room for the three of them in that kitchen anyway.”

“Mm. You know,” he says, “I’m not sure I’ve ever thanked you properly, for having me buy you a coffee that day in the Bodleian.”

Gwen laughs. “I’m very glad I did. Best unexpected run-in I’ve had in ages. Can I ask…”

He gestures with his glass. “Of course.”

“What made you choose this? You’re right that it’s not an easy life. Many people think it’s a strange one; and they’re probably right.”

Emrys smiles, and the golden firelight is reflected in the glow of his whisky and in his eyes. “The best thing for being sad,” he says, slowly, almost as if he were reciting, “is to learn something. That is the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics… There is only one thing for it then — to learn. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting.”

Gwen swallows hard. It is several moments before she speaks. “Yes,” she says simply. After another moment, she adds: “Did you? Do you?”

“Did I what?” Emrys speaks without looking away from the fire.

“Miss your only love,” says Gwen, and his head snaps up. “I’m sorry,” she says quickly, “I’m sorry, it’s a very personal question, I must have had too much wine, please…”

Emrys meets her eyes, and one corner of his mouth is pulled up. “Yes,” he says. “Yes.” She looks at him, a little agape. “Don’t _mind_ , Gwen,” he says earnestly. “Don’t mind on my behalf.”

“Oh, Emrys…”

“At least,” he says, as if half to himself, “I can admit it now.” 

There is a shout of laughter from the kitchen, and the others come in with the mulled wine, turning on the lights.

“Are you dozing off in here?” asks Lance.

“No no,” answers Emrys, and to Gwen’s surprise, his voice is light; “just talking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is taken from the description of the Christmas feast in _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight._
> 
> The mishaps of hapless freshers may or may not be based on the author's own experiences.
> 
> What Merlin is quoting is T.H. White's _The Once and Future King._
> 
> In view of Merlin's admission here, the internalized toxic masculinity of Arthur's character in the show, and apparent misconceptions I've seen in some fic, I feel I should note that, while the concept of sexuality in the modern sense did not exist in the Middle Ages, same-sex relationships were _not_ censured and punished the way they were in the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries in Europe and the US. Officially censured? yes. The target of widespread animus, prejudice, and persecution? no. The latter is a more modern phenomenon. Moreover, medieval cultural boundaries between romantic and platonic love, between erotic attraction and friendship, were much blurrier than those in modern western cultures. There is a great deal of scholarship on this; if you're interested, you can find resources on medieval sexuality [here](https://www.publicmedievalist.com/gsma-toc/) and [here](https://going-medieval.com/2019/05/08/the-medieval-podcast-medieval-sexuality-with-eleanor-janega/), and if you're interested in relevant book recommendations, feel free to ask in the comments.


	5. And vche sesoun serlepes sued after oþer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bridge chapter. Bear with me; I recommend not letting your eyes glaze over during the section on medieval literature.

In Hilary Term, Gwen gives a seminar on the living and the dead in medieval literature. She asks students a set of core questions, to be answered again and again by the texts they study: how do the living relate to the dead? What is believed about the afterlife? Where do souls and bodies go after death? What do they do? And of course, she asks them the fundamental, perhaps unanswerable question: what makes a good life?

They begin in antiquity, with Odysseus, who survived war and watched his friends die around him. “You see,” says Gwen, “that reciprocal emotional relationships between the dead and the living are not interrupted or altered in significant ways.” They discuss the academic debate on whether ghosts exist; they examine the terrifying witchcraft and prophecy of Erictho, the manipulation of the dead by the powers of the living, and manipulation even of the otherworldly.

It becomes more difficult when Gwen has to encourage them to unlearn things. But she does her best, pointing out that the Christian religion had more legal and political clout under the late Roman empire than in subsequent centuries, and working to undermine the stereotypical idea of the cultures of medieval Europe as being almost exclusively dominated by the Christian faith.

“Medieval Britain,” says Gwen, displaying images of the Ruthwell Cross, “was no exception in being multilingual and multiethnic, although the interminglings of culture and languages occurred in particularly intense, conspicuous, and culturally fruitful ways in the British archipelago.” The students blink at her; but some are actively taking notes, whispering to each other, frowning in concentration or nodding in support.

Together they work their way through _Beowulf_ , and Gwen manages to only get choked up a couple of times. They discuss early medieval Britain as postcolonial space, and theories of the monstrous. As they move into the high Middle Ages, they talk about sinful barons, transgressing nuns, and debates about the dead and the undead.

“The acute sense of transience common to much medieval literature can hardly, in my opinion, be overemphasized,” says Gwen, introducing _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_. “Note the poignantly universal descriptions of a community dealing with sadness they don’t want to talk about, concealing it under humor.”

They read aloud in turns; they discuss courtliness and queerness; they turn to Chaucer, and the echoes of sorrow, sleep, and death in _The Book of the Duchess_. “We see sorrow,” says Gwen, “as something that cannot be fully communicated, that perhaps cannot be fully experienced without fatality. Do the dead refuse to be understood by the living? Are they essentially beyond human understanding?”

They read David’s Lament for Saul and Jonathan, written by a man who was separated from the woman he loved; they read a lament for a king; they read William Dunbar. _Timor mortis conturbat me._ And then it is March, and Gwen reads their term papers.

* * *

When Gwen runs (not literally) into Emrys in the dusty, splendidly glassed-in shelves of the Weston, she asks him what he’s cooked for himself in the last week. He is very happily working through a catalogue of scientific manuscripts in Latin, but his cheekbones are looking more prominent even than usual.

“Rice and lentils,” says Emrys, promptly and proudly. “With onions.” Gwen raises an eyebrow at him. “Really, Gwen,” he protests weakly, “there’s no need…”

“Saturday,” she says firmly. 

Meekly he makes her a half-bow. “May I bring wine?”

“You may. Seven o’clock.”

On Saturday, after the first bite of trout, Emrys sits back from the table, and places his silverware on the edges of his plate with exaggerated care. At length, when his expression is less glazed-over, he dabs carefully at the corners of his mouth. “In none of my seven — no, nine — languages can I think of compliments for that which are not obscene.”

Lance splutters into his water glass, and Gwen laughs. “That’s his doing,” she says cheerfully. “I get nervous and get the timings wrong with fish.”

“Mm. Absolutely indecent,” Emrys informs Lance gravely.

“Thank you,” says Lance, color high over his cheekbones.

“It is a source of continuing wonder to me,” says Gwen, “that a man who enjoys food so much subsists on rice and lentils. For weeks at a time, apparently.”

Emrys scratches one ear, a surprisingly boyish gesture. “They provide excellent protein.”

“Well,” says Gwen, “but if you enjoy variety… or green things of any kind…”

“It’s a fair cop,” says Emrys, giving a shockingly accurate imitation of Monty Python’s witch. “I suppose,” he muses, popping a cherry tomato into his mouth, “that I got spoiled.” 

Lance nods in half-earnest commiseration. “The diet of my student days is a thing best left under a veil, not to be spoken of, even in front of Gwen.”

“I was there for half of them, you idiot. And anyway, you were an athlete.”

“I try to lie convincingly one time — _one time_ , Gwen — ”

She gasps her apologies through laughter, and catches Emrys looking at them both. Something in his expression brings her up short. Not for the first time she wonders why he looks at them as though their happiness was something closed off to him, simultaneously wondrous and alien.

“Spoiled by what, exactly?” she asks. “If I can ask.”

“You may,” says Emrys, formally, but with mirth in his eyes. He finishes another bite of trout before continuing, and Gwen thinks that maybe she’s just been imagining things, weaving a mystery where there is none. “By not eating alone, I think,” he says. “I lived with my mother until I went away to study, and then I lived with my tutor.”

“God, I would have been terrified,” says Gwen. “Living with your tutor! Imagine coming home with a hangover, or…”

“Exactly,” says Emrys. “I didn’t dare. Well, there was the once. But discovering that my tutor had his own hangover remedy was so unsettling that I never let it happen again.”

Lance salutes him with the Sauvignon Blanc. “You’re a brave man, Emrys Ealdorman.”

Emrys grins. “I worked a series of jobs, so I wasn’t under his feet too much. But the man had an absolutely terrifying eyebrow.”

Lance laughs. “Reminds me of a rowing coach I had once,” he begins, and the conversation moves into paths of easy reminiscence.

“What would you say,” asks Gwen, when she’s served the apple tart, “of going to Hampshire for the day?”

Emrys raises his eyebrows. “Any particular reason?”

“The new exhibit in Winchester.” She looks over at Lance, outnumbered by medievalists, but he is happily putting cream on his tart. “Scribes and Kings. Completely overhauled display, apparently. Lots of manuscripts?” she adds hopefully.

“I’m persuaded,” says Emrys. “And I can drive — cheaper and quicker than the train.”

Gwen tries to suppress her astonishment at the fact that he apparently owns a car. “Brilliant,” she says brightly. “Next weekend?”

The following Saturday, then, finds them en route to Alfred’s capital and Malory’s Camelot. Having weathered the initial shock of his owning a vehicle, Gwen finds herself comparatively unsurprised to discover that Emrys’ transport is an ancient and battered Land Rover.

“Entirely functional,” he assures them cheerfully, before pulling out into the Marston Road with what seems to her terrifying insouciance. Gwen is suddenly and vividly reminded of white-knuckled rides with a great-uncle who had feared nothing since The War. But they arrive in Winchester unharmed.

Gwen is still stretching her legs and blinking in the sunlight when Emrys heads off at one of his surprising tangents, as if following a clear trail.

“Farmers’ market!” he exclaims, when they’ve caught him up.

“Oh,” says Lance, “I didn’t see the sign.”

“There’ll be honey,” says Emrys happily. “Or at least I hope there will be.”

There is, and when he has acquired a jar of it for them, as well as two varietals for himself, they confer on an assortment of scones (6 for £5.)

“Mm,” says Lance, somewhat crumbily. “This excursion was definitely a good idea. Very educational.” Gwen nudges him affectionately with her shoulder.

“It’s all right,” she says mock-seriously to Emrys, “we have a system. When I become entirely unresponsive, he simply leaves me behind to commune with the artifacts, and I find him again in the nearest café or gift shop.”

“Sound plan,” says Emrys, his eyes dancing. And then they are in the shadow of the cathedral, then in its echoing interior. Gwen finds herself startled, as always, by the immediacy of it all: by the gravity of St. Nicholas on the font, by the playfulness of the misericords, by the fierce wyvern among the choir stall carvings, as realistic as the kindly falconer. And then, already a little breathless, they enter the exhibition itself.

“Absolutely gorgeous,” sighs Gwen, afterwards. “And I do _love_ being able to page through the digitized facsimile. Well, not page through, exactly, but you know what I mean. Being able to see all the illuminations…!”

“Riant riches,” says Emrys softly. They have emerged from the gardens of the cathedral close into a residential street.

“What?”

“It was said about another book, once,” says Emrys. “‘The overall effect is one of riant riches.’”

“Well, it is!” 

“The painted caskets are amazing too,” volunteers Lance. (They had found him in the gift shop, examining a whimsical mug.)

“Yes,” says Emrys, “remarkably well-preserved, and…” The sound dies so abruptly in his throat that Gwen turns to look at him.

“Emrys?” He has gone suddenly, shockingly pale, and his eyes are enormous. He opens his mouth as if to speak — and drops like a stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Ruthwell Cross is here: https://www.bl.uk/collection-items/ruthwell-cross
> 
> [Peter Abelard](https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/abelard/)'s "Lament of David" contains the following text (English translation taken from here [here](https://www.consolatio.com/2005/04/davids_lament_f.html)): 
> 
> You now, my Jonathan  
> I mourn above all,  
> among all delights  
> there will always be tears.
> 
> Woe, why am I  
> followed by evil counsel,  
> and could give you  
> no protection in battle?
> 
> If I had fallen by your side  
> I would have died happy  
> for there is nothing greater  
> than what love will do.
> 
> and living after you  
> would mean continual dying  
> since half a soul  
> is not enough to live.
> 
> The [Lament for the Makaris](https://poets.org/poem/lament-makaris) is a frequently anthologized fifteenth-century masterpiece. It's also referenced in T.H. White's _Sword in the Stone_.
> 
> The Winchester exhibit is [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OJH0M7dQaTo), and the mug Lance is examining, which I might covet a little too much, is [here](https://www.winchester-cathedral.org.uk/shop/home-and-garden/fine-bone-china-mugs/castle-life-bone-china-mug/)


	6. Winchester

“Emrys!” Gwen goes to her knees beside him; fortunately, Lance has been quick enough to keep him from cracking his head on the pavement. “Emrys!” Gwen looks up to see what it was that could have alarmed him, and sees only pedestrians like themselves. One of them is coming towards them through the knots of startled passers-by.

“It’s all right,” he says, in a voice that seems to promise that it will be. “I’m a trained paramedic, if that’s…”

“Yes,” says Gwen. She stands up. “Thank you,” she says, in her best front-of-the-lecture-room voice, to the murmuring lookers-on. “We won’t be needing anyone to call 999. He’s receiving care. He’s just fainted. Thank you.” For many of them, this is enough; there are a few who linger, to be sure that nothing interesting or alarming is about to happen.

The paramedic — somehow incongruously grave under a thatch of blond hair — is feeling Emrys’ pulse with two fingers. “Seems normal,” he mutters.

“He’s not prone to fits or seizures,” Lance is saying calmly, and Gwen could kiss him for it. “No known allergies. Maybe a touch of heatstroke?” 

“I’d expect a more rapid heartbeat — _sir_?” Emrys moves his head in Lance’s lap, and Gwen tries not to imagine the sad-eyed professor who ran into her with a book becoming a subject for a series of specialists. The stranger, meanwhile, is running his hands smoothly and efficiently over Emrys’ limbs.

“Emrys,” says Gwen, taking his left hand in both hers. “Professor Ealdorman? Emrys?”

He blinks himself awake as if he’d dozed off — _in the middle of the street_ , thinks Gwen miserably — and when his gaze focuses, it is on the stranger bending over him. With surprising swiftness, he encircles the man’s wrist with his free hand.

“It’s all right,” says their good Samaritan, and Gwen is struck again by how easy it is to believe that promise from his lips. He smiles. “You’re quite safe.”

“Arthur,” says Emrys, in a hoarse whisper.

“Next of kin?” asks the paramedic.

“No,” says Gwen, “not that we know…”

“ _Arthur_ ,” says Emrys again, more urgently. His hand has not left the stranger’s wrist, nor his eyes his face.

“Look,” says Gwen desperately, “can we just get him inside and — and get him a cup of tea or something? There’s a café just there. It’ll be dehydration, or…”

“God, I’ve missed England,” says the stranger. “By all means, strong sweetened tea.” He and Lance take the unresisting Professor Ealdorman into a chair hold. Gwen does not let go of his hand. “But I will pack you all into an ambulance if he doesn’t start making sense in the next five minutes.”

“All right,” says Emrys, without slurring. “All right. Tea.” 

“Truly a panacea,” says the stranger; and while his reassuring manner has not changed, Gwen is pleased to see some of the tension ease from his jaw. “I’ll just… keep an eye,” he says, when they’ve installed themselves at one of the cafe’s painted wooden tables. Considering that Emrys has not let go of his wrist, Gwen thinks this is remarkably tactful of him. 

“I’ll get the teas,” says Lance. “Gwen?”

“Yes, please.”

“And…”

“Milk one sugar, thanks,” says the paramedic. He turns back to Emrys. His smile, Gwen notes, is sweet, and hesitant, and entirely personal. “It _is_ Arthur, as a matter of fact, but I don’t think we’ve met, Professor…?”

“Ealdorman,” says Emrys. Gwen thinks that he sounds very weary. “From the Old English. I’m…” He takes a deep breath, and very deliberately lets it out again. “I’m sorry I mistook you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They are silent for what feels like a long time, in the center of the cafe, where they are once again unremarkable. Gwen cannot quite shake the feeling that Emrys might speak more freely if she were not there; but she can hardly leave him alone with a stranger. Particularly not now, when he is still so pale, and trying so hard not to look unsure of the world around him.

“Tea,” says Lance, and sets down the tray. “Now, Emrys, no complaints about how much sugar I’ve put in yours.”

Emrys manages, almost, to make a face at him, but chiefly just looks fond.

“Cheers,” says Arthur, and takes his mug. 

“You’re staring at me, you know,” says Emrys. If he’s trying to sound reproachful, Gwen thinks, it isn’t working.

Arthur, surprisingly, beams. “You’re swallowing,” he says, as if that explains everything.

“I’m not an _idiot_ ,” says Emrys, in a tone that is so refreshingly normal, so close to the way that he teases her, that Gwen hides her laughter by bending over her tea mug, and finds her eyes pricking with tears.

Arthur makes a noise that plausibly resembles a cough. “No, of course not. But if you’d had a seizure, you might not be able to. Or not without choking, anyway.”

“Comforting,” says Emrys wryly.

“It is to your friends,” interposes Lance softly.

“There now,” says Arthur, as if he has won an argument. “You should be very grateful to them, by the way. This one prevented you from cracking your skull open, and she managed a crowd so well I’m thinking of talking her into a career change.”

“Not a chance,” says Gwen, but she is smiling. “I’m Gwen, by the way, and this is Lance.”

“I am,” says Emrys. “I am grateful.” Gwen reaches for his hand under the table.

“You ought to see a doctor,” continues Arthur gravely, “just to be sure. Seizures can be serious things, if that’s what you’ve had. Sometimes they’re just… one-offs, but you ought to be sure.”

“I will be.” It’s an odd formulation, Gwen thinks, but Arthur seems to accept it.

“And you shouldn’t drive.” 

“I’ll do it,” says Lance quickly, and Emrys’ mulish expression softens slightly. “And yes, I’ll be careful with the Land Rover.”

“Well,” says Arthur, “it seems like you’re all sorted, then.”

“Yes,” says Emrys. “Thank you,” he adds. “It’s… thank you, I’ll just… wash up…” His chair scrapes and rocks dangerously as he pushes it back. 

Lance follows him anxiously with his eyes, but does not make to accompany him. “If he’s not out in five minutes,” he says, meeting Gwen’s eyes.

“He’s all right,” says Gwen anxiously to Arthur, “really.”

Arthur smiles. “I can see that you care for him. And he really should see a doctor; but I don’t mean to suggest that you’ve been negligent, or…”

“No,” says Gwen, “I mean, thank you. And I know. He doesn’t live with us — ”

“Yet,” interjects Lance.

Gwen flashes him a smile. “He’s not under our care or anything. It’s just,” she says, “he’s anything but ordinary, and I can’t bear the thought of doctors trying to _fix_ him. He read to us in Middle English at Christmas,” she says, and then clamps her mouth shut, suddenly aware that if she says one more word, she will cry.

“He’s lucky to have you,” says Arthur gently. Gwen nods acknowledgment. “If he hadn’t mistaken me for someone else,” he goes on, “I’d put it down to low blood sugar.”

Gwen sniffles into her napkin. “He does forget to eat sometimes.”

“Well, there you are, then. And he doesn’t show other symptoms of… anything, really, but it’s best to be certain. Is there any way you could make sure that he isn’t alone tonight? Check his breathing every few hours?” He smiles wryly. “I’d tell you to take him to hospital,” he says, “if I thought you could do it without force or trickery.” 

Lance reaches across the table to take Gwen’s hand. “We’ll make up the couch for him,” he says. “And I’ll cook a fry-up in the morning, and _then_ we’ll take him to a doctor. You can’t say no to a man who’s made you sausages.”

“Excellent. Look,” says Arthur, fishing a rather battered business card out of his pocket, “let me give you both my number. You can text me if… Well, please text me anyway,” he finishes. “I’d like to know how he’s doing.”

“Yes,” says Gwen. “I mean thank you. I mean…”

“We will,” says Lance. “Now…” He cranes half around in his chair. “Ah, Emrys. I was about to head up a search party.”

“Mm,” says Emrys, dropping into his chair. Gwen notices that his collar is damp, and tendrils of hair still cling to his temples. “I might have been viciously attacked by one of the taps. Never can trust the automated ones.”

Their laughter is breathless with relief.


	7. Like souls that balance joy and pain

Lance groans when the 3 a.m. alarm goes off.

“Ng,” says Gwen. “I’ll do it.” His answer is an incoherent murmur, an affectionately fumbling hand as she gets out of bed.

She finds Emrys awake and staring at the ceiling, his eyes luminous in the dark.

“Hi,” whispers Gwen.

He turns his head on the pillow. “Still alive, you see.”

She returns his smile, crosses the room to him. When he nods permission, she sits on the edge of the couch. Even here, even with her in her pajamas and him in Lance’s borrowed things, Gwen feels Emrys’ privacy as a palpable third presence in the room with them. She wonders if there is any question that would not give offense in the asking. She wonders how much he might want to tell her.

“Gwen,” says Emrys softly, “you don’t have to worry so.”

She lets out a breath. “You’d tell us, wouldn’t you, if you were ill?” She turns to face him fully. “You’d let us take care of you, if… if that’s what you needed?”

Emrys puts a hand over his eyes. “Yes,” he says after a moment. “Yes.”

Gwen catches her lower lip between her teeth. She waits, but he says nothing more. “It’s three in the morning,” she says finally. “I should let you sleep.”

“Gwen,” says Emrys, when she is halfway across the room, and she stops. “He looked like someone I once knew,” he says. “Arthur. He… looked like someone I once knew.” Gwen can hear his voice shaking with all that he does not say. 

Gwen wonders whether it was silence that came between them, or time; pride, or circumstance, or death itself. What she says is: “I’m sorry you lost him.”

* * *

In the morning, Lance is as good as his word. And when they have all consumed breakfast, Gwen kisses them both in the hallway, shuts the door behind them, and proceeds to text Arthur.

 _He’s okay. Tired. Coherent. Very much alive._ She hesitates a moment, and then types in: _Thanks again for yesterday._

She doesn’t expect to hear back right away — she has no idea what the schedule of a farm is, besides unforgiving — but her phone buzzes against the coffee table before she’s gotten settled with her work.

_Glad to hear it. And it was nothing, really._

Gwen would insist, but her article on haptic communication in _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ isn’t going to revise itself. She resolutely silences her phone and gets down to it.

“I can hear you hovering,” she calls, when Lance returns some hours later. 

He sticks his head around the doorframe and grins. “Tea?”

“Yes please.”

When he returns, having carefully placed their mugs on the coffee table, he sits down on the couch only to rotate so that his knees are over one arm of it and his head rests in her lap.

“Hi,” says Gwen.

“Hello.” Lance yawns. “Sunday morning means that at least half of the people seeking medical attention seem to have deeply unfortunate or implausible stories involved.” He yawns again. “I refuse to pity the youth covered in body glitter.”

“Mm. Thanks for that mental image. And Emrys?”

“Clean bill of health, though you should have seen his face when they recommended vitamin supplements. The nurse said he could find them at Boots and he practically snapped that purslane was very nutritious. Then he apologized for snapping and cheerfully informed her that it would grow almost anywhere, though she was welcome to overpay for it as ‘microgreens.’”

Gwen just laughs. “Sit up and drink your tea before you fall asleep. Good to hear that he’s back to his old self. Or getting there,” she amends.

“Or getting there,” Lance agrees.

* * *

It is some hours before Gwen remembers that she should text their good Samaritan. Halfway through their tea, Lance is nodding onto her shoulder, and she tells him to go to bed. He suggests that she might come with him; she fails to think of any reason why she shouldn’t, on a Sunday afternoon between terms. After that, of course, one thing leads quite pleasantly and with a good deal of laughter to another, and eventually they both fall asleep, still twined together.

“Oh!” exclaims Gwen, about five minutes after waking up. 

Lance opens one eye. “Hm?”

“Arthur,” says Gwen. “I forgot to text him.”

“If you weren’t still on top of me,” says Lance, “I’d pretend to be jealous.”

“Idiot,” says Gwen, and kisses him thoroughly enough that she has forgotten what she was thinking about doing in the first place when Lance says:

“Now, or later?”

Gwen blinks slowly at him. “Oh!” she says again. “Um.” She pecks him on the lips. “I think he can wait another half hour.”

“Mm, longer,” says Lance. 

“Good,” says Gwen.

After they have both showered, and Lance has said he’ll make dinner, Gwen wanders into the living room, finds her phone, and finds herself staring at the text exchange, at the man who’s been put into her contacts list as ‘Arthur’ insisting that his actions were commonplace. He hadn’t seemed naturally self-deprecating. He had seemed thoroughly charming, and at his ease. But he’d been out of the country (for who knows what reasons) and hadn’t had any friends or acquaintances with him to object to his towing a stranger off into a café, complimenting her and Lance, sitting and chatting pleasantly with a man who had clutched at him like a lifeline… Gwen huffs out a determined breath and pushes the telephone icon at the top of her screen.

Listening to it ring, she tells herself that it’s probably a stupid idea. Arthur’s younger than she is, and answering calls from unknown (or barely known) numbers isn’t a reflex for their generation. But at least she can leave a voicemail, which feels more personal than a text, and…

“Hello?” says Arthur’s voice.

“Oh! Hello!” Gwen clears her throat. “This is Gwen, from, er, Winchester. You were kind enough to help my friend when…”

“Yes,” says Arthur. “Yes, how is he?”

Gwen smiles at his eagerness. “He’s fine,” she says. “He’s fine. Lance took him in for a once-over after breakfast this morning and he’s fine. They’ve done some brain scans and everything.”

“Great,” says Arthur, and Gwen is surprised by the depth of relief in his voice. “Great, that’s really…” He breaks off, and when he speaks again the sound is muffled. “Sorry, I’m on the — no, I’ll just — look, I’ll be with you in five minutes, all right? Yeah? Thanks.” Gwen has just time to wonder about the incongruous _thanks_ before he gets back on the line. “Sorry about that,” he says quickly, “that was just… I’ll have to go. But, um, thanks for calling. It was really… I’m glad to know he’s okay.”

“Come to Oxford,” says Gwen impulsively. “I know you have to go; text me later about it, even if it’s just to say you can’t make it or it was nice to save our lives for half an hour but you’re generally quite busy, thanks, and…”

“I will,” says Arthur. “I will.”

“We’ll buy the drinks,” says Gwen.

“I… Thank you,” says Arthur, his voice harder and more professional, “I’ll be in touch.”

After the call has disconnected, Gwen sits frowning at her phone for some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is taken from Tennyson: https://d.lib.rochester.edu/camelot/text/tennyson-sir-launcelot-and-queen-guinevere


	8. Brocéliande

When Emrys next texts Gwen, it is to invite her and Lance to dinner. Her first reaction is shock; her second is guilt for being shocked. She tells him that of course, they’d love to come. And so, on the Thursday, they find themselves following his directions out to Summertown. 

“I just presumed,” says Gwen, “that it was a private thing. I mean, he’s a private person. It’s not as though he hasn’t treated us to dinner, or…”

“Or that _Lieder_ concert you said it should have been impossible to get tickets for.” Lance signals, and dismounts his bicycle as they pull onto the pavement.

“Or brought things to potluck at ours, I was going to say. But yes.”

“Well,” says Lance, “according to the directions, we should be here.”

“I wonder how he’s managed to escape Google,” muses Gwen aloud. “It must be along here somewhere… oh!” There is a gate set into a hedge, and a rather old-fashioned wooden gate. On the gate is a sign, also of wood, with Brocéliande burnt into it.

“Seems a bit twee for him,” observes Lance, locking up their bicycles.

“Maybe it was here when he moved in,” says Gwen, and pushes open the gate.

Once inside, she finds it impossible to think the word _twee_. The light is green and golden, and the gardens leading up to the house, even dormant, are exquisitely maintained. Between the paving stones grow coltsfoot and snowdrops. The solidity of the brick Edwardian facade seems almost incongruous. Almost timidly Gwen lifts the brass knocker, and the door swings ajar under her hand.

“It’s open!” calls Emrys, superfluously. 

“Wow,” breathes Lance, as they enter the hall.

Gwen is still slightly agape as they enter the kitchen, which is bright and airy, clearly designed to feed a dozen at need, and solely occupied by Emrys in an apron.

“Sorry,” he says cheerfully, “my hands are all over flour.”

“It’s amazing,” is Gwen’s somewhat breathless response. 

“You are secretly the heir to someone’s fortune?” ventures Lance.

Emrys chuckles. “No, but I did inherit the house. Do have a canapé, Lance; you needn’t just stare longingly at them. Old boy by the name of Lyon, eccentric in a very Oxford sort of way, wanted it to stay among the Fellows. No one else seemed to want the work of keeping it up — the responsibility for the garden was in his will too.”

“Wow,” says Gwen. She is conscious that perhaps she should be a little overawed, but all she can seem to feel is an almost childish delight in the open spaces, the polished wood fixtures.

“Come through to the back,” says Emrys, when he has dried his hands and poured them wine; “dinner can take care of itself for a bit.” 

In the back, Gwen gives way, and lets a grin split her face. “This is _amazing_. But surely it’s hard to keep the house warm, with the whole wall made of glass?” 

Emrys shrugs self-deprecatingly, his hands in his pockets. “There’s the Aga in the kitchen. And the glass is good quality. Plus, it gets good light.”

Gwen laughs. “It’s gorgeous.”

Emrys scrubs his nape with his knuckles — another of his incongruously boyish mannerisms, Gwen thinks. “I should have had you and Lance as guests sooner.”

“Nonsense,” says Gwen crisply. “It’s not as though it’s an item on a friendship checklist.”

He shrugs; it is a quick, lopsided thing. “Got too used to being a recluse, I suppose.”

Gwen bites her lip, and takes the plunge. “You shouldn’t speak about yourself as though you were an old man.”

For a moment, Emrys stares at her, a little open-mouthed. And then, to her relief, he smiles. “You’re right. I shouldn’t. Now, why don’t you two take your drinks into the garden while I finish up in the kitchen?”

Lance raises an eyebrow. “Sounding like a grandmother isn’t much of an improvement.”

“I’ll work on it,” Emrys promises, and ruins the effect immediately by adding: “Shoo!”

* * *

“That,” says Gwen after dinner, “is the best roast chicken I have ever had.”

“Well, that’s partly due to the chicken.”

“Have you had too little wine, Emrys, or too much?” asks Lance.

“I mean that the bird’s local: I got it from a place over in Stadhampton. Lovely family.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” laughs Gwen. “But you’ve done things to it, and they’re lovely. Don’t try to get out of being complimented.” He holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“Emrys,” says Gwen, “I have a confession to make.”

“…You secretly loathe roasting poultry, and Christmas was a one-off?”

“I rang up Arthur.”

His hand falters a little as he reaches for the stem of his wine glass, and he takes up his water instead. “Is that the confession?” he asks eventually.

“I invited him to Oxford.”

“Ah.”

“He seemed nice,” says Gwen. “Kind. And lonely.” 

“Lonely?” 

“He wasn’t with friends,” explains Gwen. “And he’s only recently returned to England, apparently. And he was really worried about you, and he wanted us to tell him how you were.”

“Oh,” says Emrys softly, the edge gone out of his voice. “I… thank you. It… it will be good to see him when I can stand upright.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Do I owe you an apology?”

“No,” chorus Gwen and Lance.

Emrys smiles, and though it is a pale and shaken smile, Gwen is prepared to count it as a victory. “I am glad,” he says formally, “that your two hearts beat as one.” 

“In this as in all things,” says Lance lightly.

“Garden?” asks Emrys. “I have blankets.”

So they return to the garden, and sit on the still sun-warmed paving stones, with blankets against the chill of the spring evening.

“What did Professor Lyon do?” asks Gwen dreamily.

“Hm? Oh,” says Emrys, “archaeology.” A reminiscent expression comes into his face. “Bit of a renegade in his field, really. Eccentric — well, you can see that in the terms of his will. He studied sub-Roman Britain before it became fashionable, and when most people were still tying themselves up in knots trying to work out who was influencing whom among the Celts and the Saxons and Romans.”

“Oh my,” puts in Lance.

“Quite so. He was involved in the Tressiwick Chalice debates.”

“I had to do those in postgrad,” says Gwen. “Write about them, I mean.”

“Did you?”

“It was quite an interesting assignment, actually: about the popular reception of academic discoveries, and on interdisciplinary influence. After all, the Tressiwick Chalice wouldn’t have been as famous as it was without the Arthurian question, and we wouldn’t have had _that_ without literary evidence.”

“Indeed,” says Emrys, a little wryly. “I sometimes think I shall never live it down.”

“Live what down?”

“Oh, the previous owner’s legacy. At least once a year I have an extremely earnest student who wants to argue that the Tressiwick Chalice _is_ the Holy Grail. ‘As demonstrated by Merriman Lyon’s work…’”

“Oh dear,” says Gwen. “But I wouldn’t be doing my job now if I hadn’t loved King Arthur as a girl. So I suppose I shouldn’t cast stones.”

“Certainly not near my glass house,” says Emrys; and in silence eased by laughter, the three of them contemplate the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merlin’s house is loosely based on this, which I definitely want to buy: https://www.rightmove.co.uk/property-for-sale/property-85334939.html
> 
> He gets his chicken from here: http://www.doyleysfarm.co.uk/.
> 
> Professor Lyon is exactly who you think he is, and both he and the Tressiwick Chalice are taken from Susan Cooper’s The Dark is Rising sequence.


	9. here again among us

Because Arthur said that he would contact her, Gwen waits. She does so with increasing impatience, and increasing concern. Theoretically, of course, there is the possibility that he only assented to her proposal out of politeness. But Arthur had not seemed to her like that sort of person. 

“Do you think I should text him?” she asks Lance, as she chops carrots. 

“He gave you his word,” says Lance, without turning from the stove. “He’ll be in touch.” 

Gwen smiles. “It’s one of the things I love about you, that you believe that.”

“Hm?” His brows are drawn slightly together, as he tries to pay attention to her without letting the onions stick to the bottom of the pot.

“That you believe in having A Word,” explains Gwen. “As a principle. Simple as that.”

Lance grins sidelong at her. “Not that it makes life any simpler.”

“No,” agrees Gwen, and puts the carrots in the pot.

Arthur does finally text her the next day. 

_Next Tuesday ok? Sorry for short notice. Farm schedule tricky._

_Fine! Term doesn’t start for another fortnight._ It occurs to Gwen only belatedly that she hadn’t told him what her profession was. _We’ll amuse you for the day,_ she adds. _Or for as much of it as you can spare._

 _Meeting a friend in the morning,_ comes the reply. _Afternoon coffee and…?_

 _Coffee, art, cocktails, dinner,_ responds Gwen.

_A woman with a plan — impressive. See you all then?_

_Ashmolean, 2 or when you can, looking forward._

* * *

Arthur texts at 1 (“A paragon!” says Gwen to Lance) and meets them under the colonnade of the museum punctually at 2. 

“Good to see you on your feet,” says Arthur to Emrys amid the handshaking, and Emrys gives him a one-cornered smile.

“Coffee’s surprisingly good,” he says. “Not just something the museum’s decided to serve to art-seekers too tired to go elsewhere. And there are proper cakes.”

“A decent museum café!” exclaims Arthur, elaborately pantomiming surprise. “I had heard,” he adds, “that Oxford is the home of lost causes.”

“Yes,” says Gwen, laughing. “Speaking of which, we forgot to warn you: Emrys and I are medievalists.”

“They’re harmless, really,” puts in Lance.

“Should I be worried?”

“Gwen studies the Matter of Britain,” says Emrys, “which is to say King Arthur, and you should have the ‘selection of our own baked cakes.’”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “I should? I alone should eat a selection of cakes?”

“Well, you… we could always share among us,” says Emrys, and Gwen wonders if that is what he had been planning to say.

“Selection of cakes,” says Arthur decisively, and Gwen surreptitiously elbows Lance, who only gives her a puzzled look in response.

“What do you do, Lance?” asks Arthur, and Lance rapidly smooths his expression.

“I coach rowing. Gwen and I met at uni; luckily Oxford has places for rowers as well as medievalists, so I followed her down from Durham.”

Arthur chuckles. “Saying that Oxford has places for rowers is a bit like saying that… that…”

“That Hampshire has good farmland?” asks Emrys, almost innocently.

“Fine,” says Arthur, “like that.” He takes the tray from the end of the glass case.

“Let’s sit outside,” suggests Gwen. “It’s a beautiful day, and it’ll be quieter.” So they install themselves in a surprisingly peaceful niche, sun flooding the concrete corner of the museum yard. The noise of Beaumont Street floats down from above.

“So, Arthur,” says Gwen, “can I ask about your time abroad? You mentioned in Winchester that you’d been away from England,” she adds, to give him time to finish an impetuous mouthful of cake.

“Mm,” says Arthur indistinctly. “You’re right, Emrys, that is obscenely good and I’m going to need to charm the recipe out of the girl behind the counter.” Emrys raises his eyebrows. “Volunteer work,” he continues, “but it wasn’t… it’s a step forward in my career, as well. The career I want, anyway.”

Emrys murmurs: “‘Begin at the beginning,’ the King said gravely…”

“I qualified as a paramedic,” explains Arthur, “while working at Camelot as well. Ambulance service: it was really great, and I learned a lot, but I wanted to… well, I wanted to see a bit more of the world, I suppose. So I did the application process with this organization based in Singapore, and when the acceptance came through, I told my father that I was off to the other hemisphere.”

“Ah,” says Emrys. Gwen gives him a look.

“And now you’re back,” she says cheerfully.

“And now I’m back. Just in time to rescue you, apparently.” Emrys smiles, nothing discomfited.

“What’s next?” asks Lance. “Besides rescuing academics in distress?”

Arthur lifts one shoulder. “For now, I’m helping my father with the management of the farms. Mostly public-facing work: marketing, identifying potential audiences, figuring out what customers value, that sort of thing.”

“Sounds interesting,” says Gwen encouragingly.

Arthur chuckles ruefully. “Well, in itself, it is, of course. After all, it’s learning about people.”

“Remember,” says Lance dryly, “that you’re talking to medievalists.” Gwen smacks him on the thigh.

“Just because the people in question happen to be dead…” murmurs Emrys. 

“Well, it _is_ interesting!” insists Arthur; “it’s just that I’m not sure it’s what I want to do. Not right now, anyway. And not forever. I think Dad should just let Morgan take over. She’s my sister — well, from Mum’s first marriage — and she takes much more of an interest. And she’s been involved, while I’ve been…” He waves a dismissive hand.

“Saving the world?” asks Emrys softly.

“Hardly that. Anyway. She’s been involved. But I’m afraid Dad’s ideas about girls — women — running businesses are positively medieval.”

“Oh, now there I must protest!” Gwen’s coffee cup chinks violently against her saucer. “Medieval European inheritance practices were far less male-dominated than Hollywood makes them out to be. You have only to look at the Empress Maud! Or Matilda, if you prefer. And when it comes to businesses, we have loads of records of women acting in their own right, and it’s been decades now since it’s been proved that _de facto_ spousal partnership in economic enterprise was the norm, even if married women’s legal status prevented that from becoming visible. Which is to say nothing of specific testamentary dispositions in favor of daughters.”

“…Wow,” says Arthur, after a moment’s silence.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be, please.”

“You tell him, Gwen,” says Emrys, not troubling to hide his amusement.

“Er,” says Arthur, “positively archaic?”

“That’ll do,” says Gwen.

“Or Victorian!” suggests Emrys cheerfully. “Terrible old misogynists, the Victorians. Just look at Tennyson’s treatment of Guinevere!”

“I blame Gustave Doré more than Tennyson,” says Gwen. “All those yearning, round-limbed maidens, and Guinevere prostrate on the floor. Tennyson’s Guinevere is at least _interesting_. Arthur loves her more than she does him; she’s not to blame for that. And she’s allowed to state her own case: she wanted warmth and color. And she found it!”

“Good for her,” says Lance cheerfully, and Emrys gives a cough of laughter and nearly chokes on his flat white.

“I can see it now,” he says. “Guinevere as Agent: A Feminist Reading of the Idylls.”

“Or,” suggests Gwen brightly, “Agency and Emasculation in Tennyson’s Camelot. Consider Pelleas and Arthur as parallel figures!”

“Good Lord,” says Arthur, a trifle faintly.

“Don’t mind us,” says Emrys. “I’m afraid that making up titles for articles we’ll never write is our idea of fun.”

“Do you also study the Arthurian… is the term legend?”

“There are many names for it,” says Emrys softly. “But no. I do magic.”

“Not in the party trick sense.”

“Not in the party trick sense,” agrees Emrys. He holds out one demonstrative hand over the table, spreads his fingers, palm-upwards, as though a flower or some fluttering thing might appear there to give him the lie. “In the sense,” he says, “that I study how it was defined, how it was understood, how it was written of obliquely and matter-of-factly, taken for granted and treated as strange.” He smiles broadly. “All of that as connected to medicine — not too far away from your own field. It’s a fascinating subject.”

Gwen cannot help noticing that Arthur holds his eyes for a long moment before saying politely: “It seems to be.”

“Art?” suggests Lance, and the tension is broken, and they return via the café to the beauties of Italy and India, Egypt and England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is taken from _Idylls of the King_. Lance and Gwen’s conversation owes much to T.H. White, The Ill-Made Knight: “Lancelot tried to have a Word. His Word was valuable to him not only because he was good, but also because he was bad.”
> 
> Emrys quotes from that classic of Oxford-based literature, _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland._
> 
> Oxford as home of lost causes comes from Matthew Arnold: “Home of lost causes, and forsaken beliefs, and unpopular names, and impossible loyalties!”
> 
> If you go to the Ashmolean Café, try the cakes.
> 
> In the next chapter: significant museum objects, cocktails, and discussions of legacy.


	10. a glimmering of the vessel

Gwen always makes a good faith effort to explore comparatively unfamiliar areas of the museum — Mediterranean textiles and modern art — but she finds herself drawn back, nonetheless, to the second-floor gallery where she can visit old friends. She makes a face at the bust of Henry VIII as she passes it. Her goal is the treasures: the impossibly delicate gold on the Minster Lovell jewel, the glowing colors and the simple inscription on its neighbor, an object so gorgeous that it had been assumed to be a king’s ornament. Gwen sighs happily as she contemplates the Alfred Jewel. She steps aside to let the gallery’s next visitor get a better view, and then discovers that her fellow-visitor is Arthur.

“Sorry!” says Gwen, not quite in a whisper. “Lance will tell you that he’s always losing me in museums.”

Arthur glances sidelong at her. “Sounds dangerous.” He smiles, and Gwen finds herself surprised by how much younger the dimples make him look. He nods at the case. “Tell me about this one.”

“Well,” says Gwen, a little shyly, gesturing towards the plaque, “the basics are there. And we really don’t know much more than that. I just love that it was made for reading. Almost like an echo of the boyhood story: that he loved the jewel-toned illuminations in a psalter before he loved the greater treasure of the words… according to the flowery account, of course. And when he grew up and was leader of a kingdom, even amid such chaos, he thought of learning, of wisdom, as the most important thing. He fought battles, but this is what he wanted his legacy to be.”

“And it is,” says Arthur softly, his eyes on the jewel. “A fortunate man, then.”

Gwen murmurs agreement, and drifts tactfully away to leave him to whatever he wishes to examine. She gets caught up in a case of grave goods not usually on display, full of objects from ordinary lives: a whimsical brooch shaped like a bird, a beautiful set of ornaments that must have held the folds of a cloak, even a man’s silver ring, its inscription not quite legible.

“Ah, they’ve put out Wylie’s stuff,” says Emrys next to her. 

“Shh,” says Gwen, with mock severity. “People will overhear you being irreverent.”

He shrugs, but she catches the twinkle in his eye. “He deserves it,” he mutters. “Though, give him credit, he was an industrious scholar. Internationally active, too.” Emrys chuckles softly. “Fairford was his first substantial dig. He concluded that the Saxons ‘had a great taste for disfiguring their persons with barbarous decorations.’” 

Gwen stifles a laugh. “Come on, let’s go before we get coughed at disapprovingly, or before poor Arthur decides we’re boring.” She is a little surprised, when she turns around, to find their visitor still no further away than the other side of the room. His face is faintly reflected in the case of the object he is staring at. Slightly open-mouthed, he is looking at the Tressiwick Chalice as if awed. This strikes Gwen as unexpected. It is indeed an impressive object… to those who know the rarity of what they’re looking at, and the skill of those who crafted it. But she’s seen tourists wander past it with barely a glance, and has frequently urged distracted students to look at it properly.

“Go tell your friend all about how it isn’t the Holy Grail,” suggests Gwen, and pretends to ignore the expression on Emrys’ face. “I’ll collect Lance and meet you outside.”

* * *

“I’ve tactfully left them alone,” she announces.

“What?” says Lance, looking up from a drawing of a kingfisher.

“Emrys and Arthur.” 

“Ah,” says Lance. “Why do they require tact, and do we need a book on Ruskin’s drawings?”

“O reason not the need!” replies Gwen, cheerfully quoting Lear. “I said we’d meet them outside, and _surely_ they were flirting.”

Lance pauses in the act of paying for the book. “Somehow I find it very difficult to associate Emrys with the concept of flirting… let alone the action.”

“Mm,” says Gwen pensively. “Well. Perhaps not.”

“If you positively pine for news of romance, however, Percy informs me that Gwaine has been keeping in touch.”

“Has he indeed!” 

“I'm not sure what 'keeping in touch' means in this context," says Lance thoughtfully. "It made Percy blush. Admittedly, associating Gwaine with the concept of romance may be a bit of a stretch.”

“Oh, I don’t know. He bakes,” adds Gwen inconsequently. “The man must have hidden depths. And Emrys likes him.”

Emrys and Arthur emerge onto the terrace a few minutes after they do, and Gwen waves them over. “Arthur,” says Emrys, without preamble, “has a theory about the script on the Tressiwick Chalice.” Gwen resists the temptation to elbow Lance. “And really,” continues Emrys, shoving his hands into his pockets, “he has a point: why _shouldn’t_ it be descriptive of the cup itself and its purpose? Occam’s Razor and all that.”

“Not,” says Arthur, almost apologetically, “that I know what Occam’s Razor is.”

“Simplest explanation likely to be correct,” offers Lance readily. “Also, Occam is known as the Invincible Doctor, which is my favorite fact about him.”

Arthur laughs. “Amazing.”

“Stick with medievalists,” says Gwen seriously. “We’re full of tidbits like that.”

“But,” says Emrys, who is stalking down Beaumont Street with magnificent indifference to tourists and speeding bicycles alike, “that still brings us back to the question of the language itself. Linear A, the language of Mohenjo Daro… they belong to civilizations that have themselves become mysterious. But we _know_ when and where this was made. Roughly,” he adds.

Gwen is half-trotting to keep up. “Arthur, what _have_ you said to him?”

“Well.” She does not think she imagines that Arthur blushes faintly. “I suggested that it might have belonged to, um, a group we didn’t know much about. I mean, I know I don’t know anything about it, really, I just… wondered.”

“That’s how all good research starts,” says Gwen encouragingly. “And there were a lot of petty kingdoms back then, changing hands and changing cultures. There was that odd inscription at Tintagel they found a few years ago, and kept trying to decipher into something Arthurian.”

Emrys mutters something inaudible under his breath. 

“Do _you_ think he existed?” asks Arthur, turning to Gwen. Emrys comes to an abrupt halt. “Is that a taboo question?” he adds.

“No such thing,” says Emrys rather hoarsely. He gestures at the house in front of which he has stopped. “Home of J.M.W. Turner. Carry on.”

“Professionally, of course, no,” says Gwen with a sigh. “Personally… well, I always tell my students that there are precisely two subjects on which I agree with Winston Churchill: Nazis and King Arthur.” Arthur raises his eyebrows. Gwen smiles, and quotes: “‘It is all true, or it ought to be; and more and better besides.’”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“Good,” says Emrys, a little too heartily. “You’re about to have the opportunity of doing so in truly excellent gin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the Ashmolean’s fascinating history: https://www.ashmolean.org/history-ashmolean. In multiple visits over the last fifteen years or so, I’ve been very impressed by the museum’s commitment to showcasing diverse artistic traditions, and mounting exhibitions that complicate and challenge hegemonic narratives.
> 
> Merlin and Gwen are looking at objects from the Fairford Graves. On the Tressiwick Chalice, see Chapter 8 and note; the description of the chalice in _Over Sea, Under Stone_ is as follows:
> 
> "They saw that it was divided into five panels, and that four of the five were covered with pictures of men fighting: brandishing swords and spears, crouching behind shields, dressed not in armor but in strange tunics ending above their heads. They wore helmets on their heads; but the helmets, curving down over the backs of their necks, were like no shape the children had ever seen before. Between the figures, interweaving like pictures on a tapestry, words and letters were closely engraved. The last panel, the fifth, was completely covered in words, as close-written as the scrawled black lines had been on the manuscript."
> 
> Cooper never identifies the museum to which the children give it explicitly, so I've chosen to put it here. 
> 
> They are on their way to Raoul's, which is really magnificent: https://www.raoulsbar.com/ And the conversation between Merlin and Arthur that has unsettled them both will become less mysterious in time.
> 
> Also, yes, Turner did live in St. John Street.
> 
> The chapter title is taken from Malory; the Churchill quotation is taken from the first volume of his _History of the English-Speaking Peoples_.


	11. wine and free companions

The sleek shopfront in Jericho conceals an interior that manages to split the difference between old-fashioned and contemporary, the sleek pseudo-Scandinavian lines of modern furniture contrasted with rows of bottles that seem to border on the mystical, recalling Victorian gin palaces and Elizabethan apothecaries.

“Emrys!” says the wiry bartender when they walk in. “Come talk to me about hyssop.” Emrys gives the company an apologetic smile and half-shrug, and ambles over to do as requested.

“The thing you must understand about Emrys,” says Lancelot seriously, “is that he is a forest-dwelling hermit who somehow manages to have a nodding acquaintance with improbable numbers of people.”

“I… see,” says Arthur.

“While he’s discussing hyssop and we’re pretending to study the menu,” says Gwen, “what _did_ you say to him? Actually, you should study the menu, it’s really great.”

“It looks lethal. There’s one here with three different spiced rums. Three!”

“The bison grass vodka is worth it,” advises Lance. “And none of us will think any less of you if you have a proclivity for things in riotous colors.”

“What’s your usual?”

“Something whisky-based, unhelpfully.” 

“I don’t really have one,” says Gwen happily. “I’m working my way through the menu. Slowly.”

“Mm,” says Arthur. “I didn’t know that cider brandy existed. Also, I don’t know what I said. Emrys was explaining how remarkable it was that the cup — the chalice — is so detailed without being clearly _of_ something, or about something. And I said, well, what if it belonged to a culture that we didn’t know much about. After all, the plaque just says ‘unknown Celtic workmanship,’ and that’s not very helpful. I mean, it might have been connected with the Druids.”

“And you said that?”

“Something like it.”

“Oh no!” Gwen stifles giggles behind her hand. “I’m sorry — I’m sorry, Arthur. It’s just… the _Druids_.”

“They did exist, didn’t they?”

Gwen bites her lip. “Possibly, but…”

“I think the easiest way to explain it,” says Lance, “is using Spinal Tap.”

“What?”

“ _This is Spinal Tap._ You’ve seen it? Never mind, weird ‘80s cult film, the important thing is that they sum up the Druids. No one,” intones Lance sepulchrally, “knows who they were…”

“Or what they were doing,” echoes Gwen.

“But,” they conclude in unison, “their legacy remains.”

“I see,” says Arthur for the second time that evening.

“Well,” says Gwen, “we can’t trust the Romans. Or Bede, fond as I am of him. And here’s a question for you: how do you tell a grove of trees is sacred, if there isn’t continuous oral tradition about it?”

Arthur looks up at her over his menu, interested. “You don’t.”

“Exactly.” Gwen grins at him. “Got it in one. So unless we get very lucky indeed, we’re not going to know where to dig for material remnants of what the Druids did. Presuming they even had a religious culture that was materially dependent, which it might not have been. I mean, Tacitus talks about them lifting their hands and cursing in a way that was apparently terrifying. But that’s not the kind of thing that leaves traces in the archaeological record.”

“Quite.”

“I’m sorry,” says Gwen contritely. “Let’s get you a cocktail — and I promise to stop talking shop.” 

It is Arthur who says, as Emrys returns to the table, “We were just talking about the Druids.”

Emrys nearly trips over his stool. “Oh.”

“You might have told me they didn’t exist.” 

“Ah,” says Emrys. He regards Arthur very steadily. “Well. They might have done.” 

To Gwen’s surprise, Arthur laughs. “The more everyone says, the less early medieval history I understand. The obvious solution is to get drunk. Split this lethal punch with me, Emrys, and all is forgiven.”

“Done.”

* * *

In contentedly tipsy retrospect, Gwen decides that the evening went well. And when she is making the coffee the next morning, Arthur texts to say that he was very serious about coming up again, and perhaps they could all get together with his postgrad friend in two weeks’ time. After some negotiation, they settle on a Saturday, and on the day, they settle in the courtyard of the Turf. 

“Remind me not to take them out on the water after May Day next year,” says Lance, dropping into his chair. “They get overexcited. I’m going to make them sit on the ground and scull for the good of their souls.”

Emrys murmurs sympathetically. 

“They’ll be fine,” says Percy. He does not drop into his chair, but approaches it as if it might turn out to be skittish.

“Percy and I will go out with you before dawn one of these days,” suggests Emrys, “and you’ll feel better.”

“That’s true,” says Lance, without opening his eyes.

“Not that I’d be able to keep up with you,” adds Emrys. Percy grins at him.

“There’s Arthur!” says Gwen, and waves. “Good heavens, why is everyone so tall?” Lance takes her hand and kisses it. 

Loping in Arthur’s wake is a man with a long stride, a scholarly stoop to his shoulders, and a slightly untidy mane of titian hair. “Evening,” says Arthur, as they all stand. “Emrys Ealdorman — don’t worry, the other names are easier — Lance Knight, Gwen Smith, and I’m-sure-you’re-great; this is Leon Kemp, school friend and all-around genius.”

“Percy Forester,” says Lance, as Leon begins a round of hand-shaking. “Fellow rower, among other things.”

“Ah, so we shan’t be outnumbered by the academics,” says Arthur, but there is no sting in it.

“I’ve sworn a solemn oath not to talk shop,” explains Leon.

“Absolve him of his oath,” demands Emrys; “I want to know what his shop is.”

Arthur laughs. “I absolve you, Leon. ‘Absolve him of his oath,’ really, are all medievalists like this or do you just need to get out more?”

“Yes,” says Emrys, holding Arthur’s gaze unblinkingly.

“Political theory,” says Leon cheerfully. “Is that stultifying enough that I need to get the first round in?”

“Absolutely not,” says Lance. “My shout, and Percy can help me carry them.”

“His strength is as the strength of ten,” suggests Leon, “because his heart is pure?”

“Tennyson!” exclaims Emrys joyfully. “I like you, Leon. That is, I’m going to.”

“And they’re off,” says Gwen under her breath. To her surprise, Arthur catches her eye, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is from Tennyson's _Idylls of the King_ ; Leon quotes "Sir Galahad."
> 
> If you're tragically unfamiliar with the "Stonehenge" song from _This is Spinal Tap_ , here it is: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qAXzzHM8zLw.
> 
> The histories of the Druids and how they have been imagined are fascinating, and if you're looking for a scholarly, engaging overview, Ronald Hutton's _Blood and Mistletoe_ is brilliant: https://yalebooks.yale.edu/book/9780300170856/blood-and-mistletoe. 
> 
> My attempts at researching rowing have taught me several interesting exercises but have left me hopelessly ignorant; apologies to devotees if, even in this cursory mention, I have made a howler. 
> 
> In the next chapter, we meet Leon properly and get more of Arthur’s backstory. As per the updated summary for the fic, I recommend subscribing if you're interested, because my own academic term is starting up, and this fic has outgrown its original planned schedule.


	12. With princely pleasures and plenteous fare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Leon properly, and assorted conversations about feasts past and present take place.

“I’ve always liked Tennyson,” says Leon easily. “I’ve been pleased to see that he’s becoming less unfashionable lately.”

“Indeed," says Emrys. "Far less sentimental — and more unconventional — than he’s given credit for.”

Leon leans forward eagerly, folding his hands on the table. “Take the critical reception of _Maud_ , for instance…”

“Oh my _god_ ,” says Arthur, “I can’t take you anywhere.”

“You’re sleeping on my sofa!”

“These are my friends!”

“Children, children!” says Gwen, and they subside with remarkable promptitude.

“I quite agree with you, Leon,” observes Emrys, with a butter-wouldn’t-melt expression. “What would _you_ like to talk about, Arthur?”

“I…” Arthur sputters wordlessly for a moment, slaps his hands on his thighs, and then acquires a calculating expression. “Magic,” he says.

“Magic.” Emrys merely looks at him. Gwen, having expected this to awaken his his barely-dormant scholarly enthusiasms, is surprised by his stillness.

“Do you do magic?” asks Leon.

“I do,” says Emrys, half-absently. “I do.”

Lance and Percy return with the drinks, and this creates a momentary diversion. 

“Always worth the wait, for this ale,” says Emrys contentedly.

“Don’t prevaricate,” says Arthur.

“Don’t tell us you’ve been debating without us!” exclaims Lance in feigned shock.

“Emrys,” says Gwen, taking his hand under the table, “was just going to tell us about magic.”

“The manuscripts tell only a part of it,” says Emrys, as if he were continuing her remark. “A small part… and yet a great deal. Medical charms and amulets, for instance: they tell us what people desired to correct, what people desired to avoid. But what is a charm?” 

“Pass,” says Percy, taking a pull at his beer.

“Charms,” says Emrys, “are structured through performance. They hold power over their audience — and are simultaneously dependent on that audience. Does the act of writing them down weaken them? Perhaps. They are neither fully natural, nor fully supernatural; even natural ingredients have supernatural potential. And language…” Emrys hesitates momentarily. “Language,” he says, “holds power: not only over a patient’s experience of pain, for example, but over reality itself.”

There is a little silence around the table. “I do hope you use your powers for good,” says Arthur at last, his drawl not quite scornful.

Emrys grins. “Always.”

“D’you know,” says Leon, “at the risk of seeming either pedantic or dismissive…”

“Out with it,” says Lance.

“Well,” says Leon, “the natural and supernatural ingredients, that’s well out of my bailiwick. But the idea of language shaping reality: that’s political philosophy for you. That’s _why_ there’s so much wrangling over treaties. And why — I try in vain to convince my students — that wrangling over a paragraph at Versailles, or a clause in the Sykes-Picot agreement, matters. We can talk about a European discourse of human rights from the eighteenth century onwards not because earlier periods or other cultures didn’t have similar concepts, obviously, but because we see that discourse articulated as independent from any other structuring belief system.”

Emrys sits up straight. “My god,” he says theatrically, “a modernist who doesn’t believe Enlightenment propaganda. Shake hands.”

Leon laughs, bright and joyful, and does so. 

“So you’re writing policies to make us a better world?” asks Gwen, and discovers that Leon blushes.

“Thesis first,” he says, and ducks his head over his pint. “Then policies.”

“So I can only presume,” remarks Lance dryly, “that you and Arthur met at some sort of ‘How to Save the World When You Grow Up’ conference when you were 12.”

This time, it is Arthur who flushes, somewhat patchily. “We were at school together,” he says, a little roughly. “Both played football, that sort of thing. I had the good sense to keep him close.” Arthur takes a drink of his beer, and grins conspiratorially at Leon. “How else would I have gotten through Latin?”

Leon chuckles. “What he’s rather pointedly omitting — though we did play a great deal of football, on the team and off — is that Arthur basically had me adopted.”

“Well!” says Arthur brusquely.

“His family, as you may have gathered,” continues Leon imperturbably, “is quite extraordinary, individually and collectively. And so when Arthur discovered that I had nowhere to go over the winter holidays, he informed me that I was coming with him, informed his father that I was coming with him — in that order — and his father informed me at the start of term that I was spending every holiday with them from then on.” Leon chuckles reminiscently. “I didn’t stand a chance.”

“You make it sound quite tyrannical,” complains Arthur.

“Yes, well, I thought you’d prefer it to being cast as a saint,” retorts Leon, and Arthur chokes on his drink.

“Well played, Leon,” says Lance, thumping Arthur on the back.

“If you like,” says Percy, and stops. The rarity of his pronouncements, Gwen thinks, seems to lend them disproportionate gravity. Everyone looks at him. “If you like,” he continues, a little bashfully, “Lance and I can put you down for pick-up games. Of football, that is. If you don’t already play in Oxford.”

Leon beams. “No, that would be fantastic. Postgrads are much too serious for sport, as a rule; I’m getting paler and weedier by the day, an attenuated academic before my time.”

“Oi,” says Emrys. 

“You don’t have a leg to stand on,” Gwen informs him. “You wouldn’t eat if we didn’t feed you.”

“She says this,” says Emrys mournfully, “despite my survival to the point of our acquaintance.”

“Well-nigh miraculous, in my view,” says Gwen firmly.

“You may be right,” says Emrys, and smiles at her. “My shout. Same again?”

“So,” says Leon, turning to Gwen with his eyes dancing, “did you meet this one through some sort of amateur philanthropist society, or…”

Gwen laughs. Before she can get her breath back, Arthur says darkly: “We met when I picked Emrys up in the street.”

“That remark,” says Percy mildly, “could be subject to multiple interpretations.” Leon raises his glass and Percival toasts him solemnly.

“You’re all terrible,” says Gwen affectionately. “And Arthur’s right: Emrys had fainted and, well, Arthur volunteered his services. He hasn’t had any more of those turns, by the way.”

“That’s good.”

“I should tell you,” says Gwen to Leon, “that he’s fine, really. Emrys, I mean. He even cooks! He just doesn’t look after himself very well.”

“Ah,” says Leon. “Well, which of us hasn’t skipped a meal now and then in pursuit of scholarship?”

“God,” says Gwen, “I can’t! Sometimes I think I have the metabolism of a five-year-old; it’s very annoying. That or I’m just hardwired to want snacks, somehow.”

“Speaking of which,” puts in Lance, “do we want food? It’s not annoying.”

“True love,” says Gwen. “Also, I do.”

“Definitely,” says Percy. 

“Why is it,” asks Arthur, “that we as a species are drawn to feasting?”

“Feasting?” echoes Lance.

Arthur waves a hand. “Technical term. Sharing food together and partying about it. Think of all the children’s books that assumed we wanted to hear about elaborate meals in great detail. They were never wrong.”

“Arthur,” says Gwen, “from a man who looks as though he subsists on carrot sticks, possibly, this is deeply humanizing. Which were your favorites?”

“Narnia,” says Arthur promptly. “I know, I know; but I always wanted to be Peter.” 

“Oh, I loved them too,” says Gwen. “Though it was annoying that Lucy and Susan were given weapons and then told not to use them. Still, all the details about the maps and constellations… and then, years later, the payoff of reading all the medieval romances Lewis was basing them on. Sneaky old so-and-so.”

“Are you allowed to call him a sneaky old so-and-so while sitting in an Oxford pub?” asks Leon, with interest.

“I hereby swear you all to secrecy,” says Gwen, and Arthur crosses his heart theatrically.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“What question?” asks Emrys, returning.

“Why we like feasting,” says Arthur, and Emrys looks at him strangely. “Eating together, I mean, festively.”

“Feasting is the proper word,” says Emrys, handing around the drinks. “But if we’re ordering food, are we also taking an oath not to go to meat until we have seen some marvel?”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Your namesake.”

“Only on Christmas and Pentecost,” says Gwen, “and I’m far too hungry for that. If you’re going to insist on a discussion of medieval banqueting, I’m ordering chips.”

“She’s the sensible one,” says Lance; “I only pretend to be.”

“Thank goodness one of us is,” says Percy, and they order chips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is taken from the Alliterative Morte in the Borroff translation.


End file.
